


The Son of the Pale Orc

by LectorEl



Series: Prince among Orcs [2]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: And Thorin is rather attached to him, Azog is a good daddy by Orcish standards, Lots of Orc feelings, M/M, Nori is too young to be too old for this shit, Orc society and culture, Rehabilitation, The bond between orcs and wargs, The brothers Ri are all spies, but he is Too Old For This Shit, is it stockholm syndrome or adoption?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:07:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LectorEl/pseuds/LectorEl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <a href="http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/4373.html?thread=8876053#t8876053">Kink Meme</a>.</p><p>AU, Erebor never fell. Azog semi-accidentally kidnaps the infant prince of Erebor. And decides to keep him. Decades later, Dwalin, a Captain in the King's Guard, has a thorn in his side in the form of the unfairly gorgeous, feral young dwarf who rides beside the pale orc. </p><p>One day, the Guard gets the jump on an orc-raiding party and among them is the orc-raised dwarf. The orcs are slaughtered, but Dwalin ensures that the dwarf is captured instead, and he's brought back to Erebor as a prisoner. His true identity soon comes to light, and the painstaking process of rehabilitating the long lost heir of Durin begins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The little dwarf sinks its teeth into Azog’s hand, deep enough to hit bone. Azog snarls and tried to shake it loose, to no effect. It holds on, eyes filled with childish willfulness and beneath that, the sharp, burning hunger to _survive_ , whatever the cost.

Orcish hunger. Azog’s hunger, and the hunger of his white warg. He laughs, dark and terrible, and lifts the dwarf into his arms.

“Fierce little maggot,” he says. “Let’s see if that fierceness lasts.”

It lasts. It lasts as the company crosses the vast wasteland. It lasts through the winter, and into the spring. It lasts as Azog feeds the dwarf naught but raw meat, and it lasts after the dwarf is tossed into the children’s pen with the warg pups and the young orcs.

The dwarf thrives, black speech dripping from his lips. A black warg pup follows at its feet, sharp teeth defending the dwarf when its hands cannot. The rest of the orcs face savaging if they try to touch it, just as they would with any young orc. But it snarls up at Azog, reaching for him with sharp-nailed hands, and Azog laughs, lifting it to rest against his shoulder.

Thorn, it calls itself when it’s a little older, a mangling of ‘thoruz’, massacre. Free of the children’s pen, it trips after Azog, dark eyes fixed on him as it navigates the camp. It steals meat and quarrels with the orclings, wandering freely but always returning to Azog’s side.

“Azog,” Thorn demands, worming his way under one of Azog’s thick arms. “Teach me.”

Azog does. Ax and sword, club and spear, dagger and flail, war hammer, bow, and pike. Thorn is proficient with them all, oft besting his agemates in practice bouts and more serious quarrels. He favors the sword, and the pike, wielding them from the back of his black warg. He is deadly, sharp-eyed and hungry, and will tolerate no disrespect. Only for Azog will he bow his head.

And still, even as Thorn approaches full growth, it is to Azog's side he returns, sleeping tucked beneath his arm like a child.

His child, Azog thinks with satisfaction. Thorn, his great treasure snatched from the dwarfs unknowing. He arms his child with the finest of his plunder, dressing him in the pelts of great beasts and leather made from the skin of his slain enemies.

Thorn, dwarf who became an orc.

Azog laughs.

***

Thorn howls, leaned low over Rukh's back, racing after Azog. The lesser orcs part before like the sea, leaving his path clear to Azog’s side.

“Status?” He asks breathlessly, clinging to his warg with one hand.

A look of satisfaction crosses Azog’s face. “They flee like rabbits.”

Thorn grins, flicking off a brief nod of acknowledgement before goading Rukh back into a run. The thatched roofs of the village ahead are just begging to be set afire, and he intends to be the one to do it.


	2. Parallels

Dwalin shoves the maps away with an aggravated sigh. Under the dim light of the Dale barrack’s lanterns, they tell a dismal story. The orcs have grown daring, their excursions creeping ever closer to Dale and Erebor. The death of the youngest prince emboldened them, Dawlin thinks sourly. And the worst of them was Azog. Azog and his second. 

The young dwarf with his feral grin and dreadlocked hair, riding beside the pale orc like a prince with his father’s standard. Rumors about him fly like birds in the air, inexplicable and impossible to trace. Prisoner, traitor, half-breed – no one can settle on what, exactly, he is.

Except the biggest Mahal-bedamned pain in the ass on this side of the misty mountains, even taking into account the elves. 

Dwalin snorts. If Azog’s second knew about his reputation among the dwarrow, he’s probably damn proud of it. The feral brat.

***

“ – and he squealed like a stuck pig!” Shelobzagh says, ale sloshing from his wooden cup. Thorn smiles, resting against his warg’s broad back. Rukh’s fur is warm, the embers of the fire are a steady glow from the corner of his eye, and the new members of the company, Bîshûk, Anghash, and Sagrûrz, have been welcomed in the evening’s revelry.

“You left out how you spent half the patrol after whinging about your crushed stones,” Thorn says to his second, lifting his own mug in tribute to lessen the insult. The other orcs roar with laughter, many pounding Shelobzagh on the back in sympathy. 

Shelobzagh shakes his scarred head, smirking. “You only got out ‘cause you’re so short. He must of thought he was dealing with a brat.”

“Better thought a child than never having them,” Thorn drawls, spreading his hands. He waits a few moments more before nodding to Shelobzagh, and adding, “Of course, you handled it better than Ghaash did. I’ve heard he’s still crying over his poor, pretty face.”

Shelobzagh barks a laugh, and is off on the tale of Ghaash within moments. Thorn watches for a while more to make sure his company is behaving, and then pads off on silent feet for his bedroll.

“We strike at dawn tomorrow!” Thorn shouts over his shoulder. “If anyone is not prepared come morning, I’ll slit their throat myself!”

***

Dwalin rises early, hours before the sun. The pre-dawn patrol around the far reaches of Dale’s farmland is not a coveted position. Early hours, hard riding, and little glory. Even the most dutiful of the King’s Guard grumble about it.

It’s also one of the few times Dwalin can escape the increasing amount of desk-bound responsibilities he’s been acquiring, which makes him one of the few who relishes their shift. 

“Everybody up, you slackers!” Dwalin roars, and the bunk is instantly filled with the sounds of dwarrow moaning, falling out of bed, and cursing his name. 

“Sadist,” a young guard mumbles, hauling himself upright. 

Dwalin hides his smirk. “Anyone who isn’t at the stables armed and ready to ride in half a candle-mark gets latrine duty for a month. Get moving!”

A girl from Dale is waiting outside the bunk is waiting with a platter of flatbread stuffed with goat meat. After Thrain compensated the farmer and donated a few of Erebor’s nicer necklaces to the lacemaker and her daughters as an apology for the incident with the milch cows, the ladies of Dale had taken it upon themselves to keep the Guards fed.

“Mama said you folks weren’t fond of early rising,” she says, shoving a flatbread into Dwalin’s hand. The side of her mouth is twitching, but the rest of her expression is bland by dint of what must be heroic effort. “I can see what she meant.”

“Aye, lassie,” Dwalin agrees, dipping his head to her. “Of the many fine qualities of the Guard, cheer and good spirits at the crack of dawn isn’t among them.”

“Should make them bake bread for a couple weeks. That’ll get them used to being up before the sun,” the girl suggests. The innocence of her expression is spoiled somewhat by the wicked glimmer in her eyes.

Dwalin laughs. “I’ll pass on the suggestion.”

Soon enough, the Guard is assembled, armed and ready should this patrol be the one to break the peace.

“Today we’re covering the trader’s road to the west,” Dwalin says. “We got word a trader’s caravan is coming through, and we’re to escort them into Dale. If we run into trouble, our first priority is to get them to safety. Heroics are for when you’re risking your own skin, not somebody else’s.”

“Yes, sir!” the Guard says as one. Dwalin looks over them proudly.

“Then we march!”

***

The pre-dawn light shines red and golden, like blood splashed across gilded wood, and the omen stirs the company to excitement. Weapons are readied, armor donned, and all the while, they sing of victory.

Thorn clenches his hands in the fur of his warg, feeling her tremble with the need to chase and kill. “Soon, Rukh. Very soon. We’ll find a nice plump merchant for you to gnaw on.”

“Mount!” Shelobzagh orders. “Line up!”

Thorn swings up on Rukh’s back, and surges to the front of the company, just ahead of Shelobzagh. 

“We hunt!” He lifts his pike into the air, and slashes downward. 

Down through the forest they go, over the river, along the dusty trader’s road. Dale lays spread out before them like a fruit tree ripe for the picking. Thorn lifts his head, howling a hunting cry, and ten orcish voices join him.


	3. Battle-lust

“Dwarves!” Bîshûk warns. “Dwarven warriers!”

Thorn leans hard to the right, and Rukh wheels, facing the encroaching line. Thirty dwarven fighters, mounted on ponies and armed. They outnumber the company three to one.

“They might even be a threat at those numbers,” Anghash says mockingly, club readied. Lurugh laughs at his brother and readies his bow.

“Pah! Puny dwarves and their ponies are no match for me,” he boasts. 

Shelobzagh and Thorn exchange glances. The odds are not good, no matter what Anghash or Lurugh say. Three of the company are fresh from the quarrels of youth, still getting used to fighting with other orcs instead of against them. And Thorn recognizes the symbols on the dwarves' bright, burnished armor. These dwarves are trained. The closest thing to proper orcs dwarves have.

It will be no easy fight. 

Shelobzagh meets Thorn’s eyes. “We make the chieftain proud.”

Thorn nods, and raises his voice. “Kill them!” 

The line approaches. Rukh lunges for the nearest fighter, and dwarven blood splashes across Thorn’s face.

The battle begins. Thorn clings to Rukh with his thighs, trusting her to carry him. Sword in one hand, pike in his other as makeshift shield. He strikes, dodges, strikes again. All around them, he hears are war cries and the clash of steel. Blood-scent, metallic and thick, coats the back of his throat. 

The heady tide of battle swamps them all.

A lucky ax-blow catches the meat of Thorn’s thigh, slicing through muscle before his foe falls, speared in the back by Sagrûrz. Thorn whoops and strikes the dwarf aiming at Sagrûrz’s back. They grin in the savage glee of battle, and throw themselves back into the melee. 

Thorn’s sword flays open one’s arm, slices through the flank of another’s pony, battle-rage thrumming in his veins. Rukh dances to the side, avoiding a war-hammer, and Thorn’s pike cripples the rider’s beast.

“Good girl,” he croons. Thorn is bleeding from half-dozen injuries, furs and leathers bloodstained. Rukh’s fur is drying in stiffened peaks from the gore. All around them is chaos, blood tamping down the dust, churning it into mud. 

Rukh howls her delight, and Thorn joins her.

Shelobzagh pulls abreast with him, catching an ax-blow in time to save Thorn’s skull. “Angash and Ghashdurb are down, Nazg’s bow is broken,” he reports before his warg pulls ahead, pouncing on a downed dwarf.

A shout, and Thorn twists, seeing a bald dwarf just as he is tackled from Rukh’s back. He trashes and sinks his teeth into the dwarf’s arm, receiving a backhanded blow in response. Shelobzagh roars, somewhere beyond his vision, and Rukh cries, a sound of pure animal pain that strikes at Thorn’s soul.

“I will kill you all,” Thorn snarls, kicking and clawing as he tries to escape. “I will flay the flesh from your bones, and suck the marrow from them. You will _beg_ for the release of death.”

Rukh yelps a final time, and falls silent. 

“Rukh!” Thorn frees himself at last, wrenching the dwarf’s wrists aside. His injured thigh burns, but he pays it no attention. Rukh, where is Rukh? 

His warg staggers to her feet at his voice, half-way across the field from him, blood streaming from deep and ragged wounds. “Rukh, âdhûn!”

She howls, high and mournful, and runs.  
***

The feral dwarf sags into unconsciousness as the black warg retreats into the forest, knees buckling. Dwalin catches him before he hits the ground.

“How’s that for loyalty?” Vitr says, an understandable amount of both relief and malicious amusement in his voice. The dwarf’s warg is nearly as fearsome as he, and if it _had_ chosen to fight on, they would have been hard pressed to kill it without losing more of the Guard.

Dwalin wonders, though. He has seen orcs and their wargs more often than many in the guard, and he’s never seen a warg abandon its rider. He has seen wargs savage their riders, disobey them, even, once, seen a warg kill its rider. But he’s never seen a pair willingly abandon one another. The bond between the orcs and their mounts is a strange and twisted thing, but it runs deep, like a vein of ruby through the heart of a mountain.

“Bind his hands and feet,” Dwalin orders. “The king will want to see him.”

“The king, nothing. Dale’ll want to see him,” Litr snorts. Dwalin frowns. ‘Seeing’ is the least of what Dale will want to do to the dwarf. His existence has been a point of unease in the allegiance between Erebor and its neighbor, and many people will want him executed, quickly and publically, for the sake of continued good relations.

It’s nothing less than what the dwarf deserves. He’s not engaged in rape or torture like others among his company, but that’s like as not an issue of size, not morality, and he has killed before. Dwalin doesn’t have a good reason to want to protect him. Yet he does. The young warrior is fierce and in a particular sort of way, beautiful. Dwalin can’t help but admire him, and wonder what he might become given a chance.

“We need to figure out where he came from,” Nyi says, looking up from his work readying the bodies of the fallen Guards for transport. “If there’s more like him. He’s cursed strong, Mahal forbid he has brothers.”

“Nyi’s right,” Dwalin says, grateful to have the dilemma taken from his hands. “There’s no need to let Dale know of him just yet.”

He looks over the bloodied road. Seven of the Guard are dead, another nine injured. Most of their dead have been wrapped and readied for transport, leaving only the corpses of the orcs and wargs, which have been rolled into the drainage ditch beside the road.

There’s something pitiful about them, ten orcs and ten wargs, bodies lying tangled together, red and black blood staining clothing and fur alike. Dwalin shakes his head, and turns away. His sympathy for the feral dwarf is bad enough. Extending it to actual orcs is madness.


	4. Revelations

Thorn wakes in chains, shackled to the wall of a little cell. It’s dark, which is a small comfort. At least his grief will remain properly hidden.

His company is dead. Angash, Ghashdurb, Nazg, Sagrûrz, Lurugh, Bîshûk, Gorûrz, Mokûgh, Naur, _Shelobzagh_ – he cuts the litany off. They were _his_ , hand-picked for his company, trained under him, capable of fighting together as a unit. Only Azog and Rukh mean more to him.

Now they’re dead, their wargs with them. He can’t do anything for them. Nothing but avenge them, anyway.

Thorn is alive, and Rukh is free. He has to believe that. She’s alive, her wounds haven’t killed her. She’s with Azog, her hurts are being tended, she’s been given food and water and a warm place to sleep. When she’s well, she’ll lead them to him.

His ashûn will make sure they come, and then they’ll avenge their company. He just has to endure until then. He refuses to consider any other possibilities.

Thorn quietly takes inventory. The three copper and ruby rings he wears through his left ear are gone, though he can feel _something_ in the holes, much lighter than his rings. His furs, and his sword and pike have all been taken.

In his favor, the thick leather of his riding gear hasn’t been disturbed – the knots holding the pieces together are the same ones Azog tied a decade ago when Thorn had finished growing, and the three hidden knots that keeps the front closed, the ones that can’t be re-tied properly unless you’re wearing it, are still intact.

So he still has the thin blades he keeps in between the layers, plus the cording itself. He’s not entirely unarmed. The chains, though, are an issue. His hands and his neck are shackled to the wall, but his feet are free. The dwarves were even nice enough to give him a bench to sit on, so he doesn’t have to worry about not accidently strangling himself.

Thorn smirks. He’d been in worse situations while still penned up with the other infants. He’ll survive this.

Inventory done, Thorn turns his attention outward. The cell front is made of strong bars, the other three walls of stone. Across from him, he can see three cells. Two are empty, but the left-hand one is occupied.   
Thorn eyes the dwarf in the cell. He isn’t shackled like Thorn was, but he’d been stripped down to his small clothes. And he has the _strangest_ hairstyle Thorn has ever seen, three peaks above and three braids below, like a screaming lizard’s ruff.

Thorn wonders what the dwarf did that was so horrible to be imprisoned alongside an orc. The only thing Thorn can think of that would result in a similar set up, an orc being confined alongside a troll or three, would be an orc killing a warg that wasn’t their own. And in that case, the trolls would be captured so they’d kill the orc in a suitably agonizing way. Is he the troll in this set-up?

Thorn’s going to be very insulted if he is. Trolls haven’t the brains Melkor gave his goblins, and _that’s_ saying something.

***

Dwalin resists the urge to sigh. “And you decided to put the prisoner in the same block as Nori son of Kori, and move the rest of the block into other parts of the jail.” The feral dwarf is watching them, and Dwalin would swear he’s laughing at them.

“Yes, sir,” the guard says, trembling faintly. “I thought keeping them in one place would mean we wouldn’t have to divide the Guard to watch them.”

And if they were any other dwarf besides those two, it’d be a logical idea, Dwalin acknowledges reluctantly. “Just…go. Somewhere,” Dwalin orders, and the guard is off, quick as rock falling down a mine shaft.

Dwalin stops in front of Nori’s cell, relieved to see he appeared no closer to death than before his new neighbor was installed in his cell. 

“You’re being relocated,” he tells Nori, unlocking the cell. Nori follows him out, and into one of the isolated debriefing rooms located in the heart of the jail.

“Guard Captain,” Nori says the moment the door closes behind them, looking pale, “Tell me that’s not Azog’s dwarf.”

“Why do you care, spy?” Dwalin asks, raising his eyebrows. In the decade he’s worked with Nori, he’s never known the spymaster-in-training to rattle easily.

“You don’t know,” Nori says, looking at Dwalin incredulously. “Of course you don’t know, that’d be too easy.”

Dwalin crosses his arms impatiently. Nori grimaces, tugging at one of his braids. “There’s two things you need to know. One, he’s Azog’s son and heir in everything but name. Azog’s a leader of orc society, such as it is, and by taking his son, you’ve gone and kicked over a salamander’s nest.”

“Two?” Dwalin prompts. Nori tugs at his braids even harder.

“Two,” he says reluctantly, “the network has evidence to suggest that he’s Prince Thorin, the missing heir.”

Dwalin stares. “That’s not funny, Nori.”

“Believe me, I wish it were just a bad joke myself.” Nori smiles bleakly. “But a few agents spent a year tracking Azog’s clan. He’s got the tattoo on his shoulder, same as every royal family member.”

Dwalin turns in the direction of the dwarf’s – of Prince Thorin’s? – cell, even knowing the layers of stone that separated them. “Well,” he said after a moment, “ _Prince_ Thorin. His Highness Prince Frerin is going to be ecstatic he’s not a heartbeat away from the throne anymore.”

Nori snorts. “At least somebody will be happy. Aren’t inheritance laws grand?”

“A blessing from Mahal himself.” 

“Come on, Guard Captain, I think we should get a drink. Before the rest of the mountain finds out and needs one too.” Dwalin considers refusing for a flicker of a second, before his brain catches up to the whole situation. He nods fervently.


	5. Irritation

By the time his horrid hangover is gone, and Nori had slipped away to continue his work infiltrating Erebor’s criminal class, the news of Prince Thorin’s capture had already reached King Thrain. Likely through Spymaster Jori, who seems to have a psychic link with his sister-sons based on how quickly information passes from Dori and Nori’s hands to his.

Dwalin lives in fear of the day young Ori ends up in his family’s line of work. No secret in Erebor will ever be safe again.

The recovery of Prince Thorin set the kingdom into an uproar. Princess Dís and Prince Frerin want to see their brother, _right now_. King Thrain is refusing to believe that the dwarf is his son. Half of Erebor wants him hanged from the gallows, and the other half wants to go out and slaughter the orcs that took him. All this in a week. By the end of the month, Dwalin expects that something will be on fire.

Probably at the hands of the orcs, which according to scouts from the Guard are converging into a war camp at the base of the misty mountains. 

“Mahal, it’s a cave-in waiting to happen,” Nori complains, sitting atop Dwalin’s desk with a mug of the rosehip tea he secretly favors. “The King wants to throw Prince Thorin back out to the orcs but doesn’t dare because of what it would do to his reputation, Dale suspects – correctly – that we’re the reason the orcs are preparing for war, and there’s talk of trying to overthrow Thrain and put Náin on the throne to prevent the ‘orc-prince’ from being in the succession.”

“Now would be a good time for Durin the deathless to return, but that’s probably not happening,” Dwalin agrees with a grunt. “What’s your uncle think of this?”

“The old badger wants to try to rehabilitate the prince,” Nori says, looking pained. “He thinks it’s the only way to stabilize things, at least in the short term.”

“Good luck with that,” Dwalin says, grinning as he pictures Jori and the feral dwarf facing off. It’d be glorious, in the way cave-ins sometimes were. Bloody, ultimately fatal, and messy as anything, but impossible to look away from.

Nori glares. “Die in a rockfall.” And really, after that, Dwalin should have expected it when he gets assigned to watching the prince.

Thorin had been transferred to a bigger cell, with a narrow bunk, a table and chair bolted to the floor, and a little half-cubicle for necessities. Dwalin hadn’t been there for the transfer, but he’d heard about it later. A large part of Erebor had, between the Guards who’d done it and the prisoners who’d seen it talking.

“Broshan, gazat ashpar,” Thorin says when he spots Dwalin, somehow managing to lounge on the slender ledge of his cot.

“Hello to you too,” Dwalin grumbles, feeling fonder than he’s strictly comfortable with at the greeting. Nobody else can get the prince to say anything.

Thorin smirks at him, eyes laughing. He’s picked up a half-dozen new scrapes and scratches, but both his dreadlocks and his leather clothing are intact, and the edging of blood around his nails is still there. Attempt number five at getting him into a bath had obviously failed. 

Dwalin should _not_ find that so funny. He really shouldn’t, he’s a captain of the King’s Guard, and he shouldn’t be taking amusement from his subordinates’ complete inability to wrestle one unarmed dwarf into a tub of water.

Thorin looks very pleased with himself, and once he spots Dwalin’s poorly hidden amusement, his smug smirk widens. 

“Will you be eating today, your highness?” Dwalin asks, voice dry. Thorin, of course, doesn’t answer him. If he even understands what Dwalin’s saying, which seems increasingly unlikely.

Thorin shrugs, letting loose another tangled burst of black speech. Dwalin pushes the tray of food under the thin gap at the base of the cell anyway, and leans back for another long shift of watching Thorin alternately pace and attempt to goad him.

***

Thorn doesn’t know how long he’s been trapped in this thrice-forsaken pit, only that it has been _too long_.

His only amusement is goading one of his guards, a bald dwarf with tattoos across his scalp that Shelobzagh would have envied. The rest of time, he’s surrounded by what seems like dozens of irritating, intrusive dwarves who won’t cease jabbering at him, or attempting to steal his riding gear, or ruin his dreadlocks. They’ve already taken his rings, but he’ll dance naked beneath the noon-day sun before he lets them take anything else.

Azog will come, Rukh will lead him. Wherever this is that the dwarves have caged him, they’ll come. It will be a horrible embarrassment, to be rescued like a half-grown whelp who was outnumbered by his agemates, but it’s better than being stuck here.

They’ll come. He’s sure, and that knowledge is enough to keep him from going completely mad. Though maybe for not much longer, if he doesn’t get out of this cell. He’s an orc, he’s not meant to stay still like this. 

He wants to move. Spar with Azog, race Rukh through the hallways of Moria, wrestle with Shelobzagh till they’re both bleeding and exhausted. Anything but pace the confines of this tiny space, staring at the blank walls until he convinces himself he can see shapes in them.

He snarls in frustration, mood souring as he glares at the current guard. The tattoo’d one, not that it makes a difference in this mood. Thorn would gladly kill anyone who gets close enough at this point, and even his fondness for this dwarf wouldn’t stop him.

The dwarf stares back, looking unimpressed, and Thorn mentally curses him and his entire family line. He wants to be _out_ of this cage.


End file.
